


one fine day when i woke up dead

by cynicalRaconteur



Category: Neverwhere - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-04 00:46:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynicalRaconteur/pseuds/cynicalRaconteur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>De Carabas attempts to make good on a threat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one fine day when i woke up dead

It was the Floating Market that started it. At the time he hadn’t thought much it– so many people had tried to kill him since the Islington Incident that he barely held a grudge against Lamia at all. 

In a bizarre sort of déjà vu, he was buying food when it happened. Door was looking at knuckledusters a few stalls over and the Marquis, as was his wont, was handing out trinkets amongst the Sewer Folk, who seemed inordinately pleased to see him. They plucked at his coat, sniffed inquisitively at his shows, and one particularly bold one of indeterminable gender gently batted one of his dreadlocks. He smiled at them, a glorious and benevolent smile that practically had them swooning, and Richard had to cough a laugh into his sleeve. The proprietor of the food stall gave him a sideways look as she shoved his roast meat into his hands: Richard had given up thinking about what the meat was, and concentrated instead on how warm it felt and how the grease was seeping through the paper bag. He fished one of the Marquis’ many handkerchiefs out of his pocket by lieu of payment, and when he turned around, she was in front of him.

He very nearly dropped his food, but managed juggle it back under control, and when Lamia spoke, there was laughter in her voice.

“It’s been too long, Richard Mayhew.”

Richard shrugged. “Only about three months, actually.”

“Hm. Yes, I suppose it has.” She looked a little put out that her mysterious opener hadn’t had the desired effect. Richard glanced over at Door, who was shadow-boxing with her new knuckle-duster, a look of intense concentration on her small face.

“I see you still travel with the Lady Door,” Lamia observed.

Richard smiled despite himself, still looking over at the scion of House Arch, who had tripped over one of her many trailing scarves. “Yes,” he replied. “Yes, I do.”

The Velvet’s mouth twitched. “The Warrior and the Opener. My my, what a pair.”

“More of a trio, actually,” an elegant voice commented from over Richard’s shoulder. From his vantage point, he could see Lamia’s eyes go wide with what he thought was real fear. 

The Marquis tutted, and placed a hand delicately upon Richard’s shoulder.

“Dear me, Lamia,” he said, sounding regretful. “I did warn you.”

Then he steered Richard away, forcefully. Richard was rather used to the Marquis guiding him around, as the Undersider still clearly thought he was too stupid to be allowed to wander unattended, but the Marquis pulled back his hand as though scalded as soon as they were out of Lamia’s sight.

The Marquis pressed his fingers to his brows, and sighed. “Why, Richard?” he asked the floor. “Why must you insist on making my life so complex? Temple and Arch, I sometimes wish you’d stayed in London Above. Or better yet, died in the Labyrinth.”

He stalked off, and Richard decided it was best to let him sulk for a while before going after him – the Marquis’ moods were fierce, but fleeting. He found Door haggling fiercely over what appeared to be a first edition of Oliver Twist, and told her about the encounter in between bites of meat.

“You what? Even though she – no, bugger that, it’s not worth that and you know it – Richard, she tried to kill you!”

“Lots of people have tried to kill us,” Richard reasoned. “and besides, she didn’t manage it. The Marquis sorted it all out. He’s been lording it over me ever since, remember?”

Door sighed. “Richard look – alright, two combs, and that’s my final offer, and this one even has hair in it – don’t you think that was a bit dangerous?”

Richard thought.

“No. No, I think it was okay. Market truce, right?”

Door turned to him, book clutched in her pale hands. “Not for you, Richard. For her.”

 

*

 

The next morning, the Marquis hadn’t returned. The three of them shared a small house carved out of some connected and abandoned nuclear bunkers. Door hadn’t said anything, but he had a feeling that she had searched for the most modern part of London Below she could find, and the effort to make him feel at home warmed his heart every time they entered the little home. It even had electricity! Door had worked hard to make it comfortable for all of them, each of them with separate bedrooms and then a communal space with two halves of two different sofas pushed together and stacks upon stacks of books, which both Door and the Marquis collected almost absent-mindedly, though their tastes varied: the Marquis liked old esoteric texts and (inexplicably) terrible 1970s sci-fi, while Door gravitated towards Victorian literature, and anything with orphans.

At the moment, though, books were the last thing on her mind. She’s paced and tugged on her sleeves, while Richard stretched awkwardly on their Frankenstein sofa, sharpening Hunter’s knife. He had quite the collection now, even a cavalry sabre which he didn’t quite know how to use, but this particular knife held a special place in his heart. It had been hers, and in some way it still was, and sometimes he could swear it whispered to him in her voice. That last part was probably just insanity creeping in, but it comforted him, all the same.

“He should be home by now,” Door muttered. She took off her hat, held it in her hands for a moment, then put it back on. “He’s never been gone this long before. Where is he?”

“Door, come on. He’s a grown man. What’s the worst that can happen?”

Door whirled to face him, and to Richard’s shock there were tears in her opal eyes. “I don't know, crucifixion?”

Richard dropped the knife, nearly stabbing himself in the gut. “What? I don’t... What?” he added again, for good measure.

Door scrubbed angrily at her eyes with the back of her fist.

“Fuck. He’s going to kill me. Fuck!” she stamped the floor impotently, and when that didn’t make her feel better, she flung her hat on the floor and stamped on that too. “Fuck!”

“Door,” Richard scrambled up from the sofa and sheathed his knife. “Door, what are you talking about?” He took her wrists, gently, and the fight left her. She leant her forehead against his chest.

“Croup and Vandemar,” she spits. “That’s what they did to him, when they killed him. He told me all about it...he didn’t want to, but I told him he owed me the answer, that I’d already repaid my debt saving us all from Islington, and that he was the one who owed me...”

Richard whistled. “Temple and Arch, how did you pull that one off?”

Against his chest, Door giggled tearfully. “I think he was quite drunk.”

Richard laughed too, resting his chin on top of her head. “Yes, I think that would do it.”

“Anyway, he told me that they crucified him, and they shattered his knee, and then they slit his throat and rolled him into the sewers. The way he said it...I don’t know. He doesn’t regret it, I don’t think.”

Richard sighed. “Right. Fine. We’ll go and find him. I’ll enjoy the role reversal at any rate, let him be the damsel in distress for a change.”

Door huffed a reluctant laugh, and pulled away. 

“Can I borrow your hat?” she asked. “The nice one? I’ve squished mine.”

“You can’t go out without a hat?”

Door gave him a look that suggested this was out of the question. Richard ran a hand through his hair. “I’ve got lots of nice hats.”

“No, Richard, you don’t. You’ve got one.”

He knew exactly which one she meant. “Right. I’ll go get it, shall I?”

 

*

 

They found the Marquis lounging outside the caverns of the Velvet Children. It had been Door’s hunch, and as per usual, she had been right. He was smoking, having lit his ironically ornate pipe on the torch he was carrying, and Richard caught his eye first.

“That thing will kill you, you know,” he said, and the Marquis narrowed his eyes, not entirely sure whether Richard was joking. Before an argument could break out, Door darted past Richard and snatched the torch away from the Marquis. He raised an eyebrow, and took a drag on his pipe.

“I was using that,” he replied languidly, blowing smoke down into Door’s face. The girl was at least a head and half shorter than him, and the picture would have been comical if one of Richard’s best friends wasn’t seriously considering genocide.

“You can’t!” Door snarled, coughing slightly in the smoke.

“On the contrary,” the Marquis replied, cracking his neck from side to side, “I can’t not. I made a promise. I told Lamia of the Velvet Children that if she came near Richard again I would burn down their caverns while they slept.” He shrugged. “I have come to make good on that promise.”

“You can break an oath! You’re an oath-breaker!” Door shouted, looking seconds away from kicking the Marquis on the shin.

“Never when it matters,” the Marquis de Carabas grinned his notorious grin, and Lady Door of the House of Arch stomped on his foot.

Door stalked back over to Richard, who automatically raised his hands in surrender – when Door had that look in her eye, it really was best to just back away.

“You talk to him! He listens to you, and if I talk to him anymore I’m just going to knock him out and _drag him home_.” Door yelled the last part over her shoulder, and the Marquis laughed.

“My dear young lady, what makes you think you could?” the Marquis called back, and Door shook a knuckleduster-ed fist at him.  
Richard felt it was really about time he intervened. The two natives of London Below got along more often than not, but their arguments usually ended in severe head trauma for one or both parties, and the only thing more irritating than the Marquis de Carabas was the Marquis de Carabas with a concussion.

Awkwardly, Richard approached. The Marquis glanced at him, then looked past him at Door, who still held his torch. Richard waved a hand in front of his face, and quickly withdrew it in case the Marquis tried to cut his hand off.

“Look, you really don’t have to do it, de Carabas. Lamia was afraid of you anyway. I saw.”

The Marquis laughed bitterly. “She was afraid of me because I am known for making good on my threats. If she is not afraid of me, neither you nor Door will be safe from the Velvet Children. And believe me, Richard, you wish to be safe from the Velvet Children.”

Richard shook his head. “Door and I can look after ourselves. Or did you forget she can blow people up with her mind?”

“And you?” 

The Marquis’ eyes bored into his, and Richard couldn’t bring himself to tell the truth. Instead, he smirked (an expression which never sat on his face as well as he thought it did).

“I’m the greatest Warrior in London Below.”

The Marquis gave an undignified snort, ducking his head. “You are patently ridiculous.” He tucked his pipe back into his pocket. “Door, blow out that torch and leave it here. I won’t have anybody saying I didn’t try. It’s hardly my fault I have the most insufferable friends in London Below.”

Striding jovially past Richard, the Marquis mockingly offered Door his arm which she took, with her characteristic stubbornness. They wandered off together, and as they did so Richard heard the Marquis ask, “Door, my dear, why on Earth are you wearing Richard’s hat?”


End file.
